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“A flying carriage? Well, if anyone can, it is Feanor who will. Your father is a genius—fire and brimstone both, somehow. Though don’t tell him I spoke in terms of damnation!”
Maedhros laughed. He was pleasantly drunk—they both were, for though Maedhros had matched him two to one, Finwe was no longer equal to the tolerance of his youth.
“Athair talks of damnation often enough himself,” Maedhros said, loosening his collar. “Lord, it has grown a little close in here.”
“Sherry warmth, boy o’mine.”
“My hell’s of my own making, then.” Maedhros brought his glass to his smiling lips and drained it. “I’ll take your bishop. Fit myself out with a wee churchman. Save my soul.”
“Ach,” sighed Finwe, well-impressed by the attack. Chess had always been their game—a favorite pastime of his from childhood, though none of his three sons had been well-suited for it. Feanor too quick-tempered. Fingolfin achingly deliberate. Finarfin inclined to gentle flippancy.
Maedhros, at long last, played with style and patience, strategy and daring.
“Have you thought any further, lad, about the seat? Names are pooled by the twenty-first of November. They vote before Christmas.”
The bishop was safely tucked away. Maedhros’ bright hair fell about his ears. Finwe was glad the days of powdering had passed. No dull tint ought to touch those ruddy tresses.
But Maedhros was not answering.
Finwe frowned.
“In truth, sir,” his grandson said, when he did speak, “I do not find myself suited to filling your—” He cleared his throat. “I am not able to comingle politics and principles in as easy and sincere a manner as you have done. Nothing would grieve me more than to outstrip my abilities before the eyes of those who instantly recalled the sight of you at my every appearance.”
Though prettily made, it was a disappointing speech. Finwe did not finish his sherry but sat staring instead at everything that had been comfortable, satisfactory, and even beautiful a moment before.
Finally, he spoke.
“I am surprised.”
“God,” muttered Maedhros. “I know.” He swiped at his mouth with the tips of his fingers.
He looked, in that moment, very like his grandmother.
Finwe had not known himself to be angry until the anger left him. He checked the words which a few moments of silent contemplation had prepared, dismayed, now, by their severity.
“I am surprised,” he said again, more gently. “But want only your happiness; your fulfillment. And twenty is shockingly young—who knows what rules I was unknowingly trampling to dust by trying to force you forward! What is more, I daresay your father shall be powerfully pleased. He has encouraged my efforts, it is true, and I blush before such generosity. But depend upon it—Feanor does not want his boy in a life of politics. At least, not yet.”
Maedhros had not tried to interrupt. He poured no more sherry; his hands were clasped in his lap.
“Do you really think so, Grandfather?”
“Like many sons,” Finwe answered, “he hides his heart from his father.”
Then, still stirred by the poignancy of memory and the bright unknown of the coming years, he reached out and laid a hand on the flushed, youthful cheek.
“I have captured only a pawn,” he said, meeting Maedhros’ tear-starred gaze with deep affection. “The move is yours.”